


Everything That He Deserves

by Oaklin



Category: Professional Wrestling, 新日本プロレス | New Japan Pro-Wrestling
Genre: (Kenny is sorta grumpy about staying down), (also concussed!lusty!Omega which is a thing that I never want to write again), (as fluffy as The Golden Lovers are at this point), (believe it or not I actually like Omega Jay Trent and Yoshi), (except sorta not), (just sad), (they are just all massive goobers and I will take every opportunity to slag them off), (ug), (which is not really that floofy), Angst, Blood play?, Canon-Typical Violence, Chair Shots, Chair Shots To The Head, Concussions, Flashbacks, Kayfabe Compliant, M/M, Omega's insistence on talking about Kayfabe in a non-kayfabe way, Swearing, The little shit, Whump-ish, Yoshi is the smart one, concussed!Omega, fluff?, hurt/comfort?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 16:43:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13391964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oaklin/pseuds/Oaklin
Summary: He would wear it as a badge, if the pain of it was something he was willing to show the world.Little does he know that everyone can already see his broken wing.





	Everything That He Deserves

**Author's Note:**

> So, fair warning, I have no idea what is popular in the Golden Lovers fandom at the moment, so this is probably very different than whatever is currently making the rounds. I don't have a lot of free time, and what free time I do have is usually spent watching actual wrestling, so I don't read a lot of fic. One day I will get around to it.
> 
> Anyway, I usually stick to my Steenerico trash, but since I've been a fan of this particular dumpster fire for a very long time, and said dumpster fire happens to have gotten into the gasoline shed and set itself alight all over again, I figured I'd throw my terrible opinions into the bin with the rest of them.
> 
> Hope you like it!

Red Shoes is about as done with them as usual, looking put out and as frustrated as he feels, when he hooks his ankle around Jay’s long leg, slamming his elbow across that chubby little face and leaning back with the last of his strength. The three count whizzes by in what is either a second or a century, the bell ringing clear even as White uselessly flails, snatching his shoulder up just a millisecond too late. Grinding his elbow into the little edgelords soft cheeks, he finaly lets the kid up, watching the twitchy dork try to flail away.

He sits up with a gasp, letting Jay roll out from under him, reaching for the belt and snatching it out of Red Shoes’ exasperated hands, stumbling to his feet and staggering to the ropes. The people are happy at least, clapping enthusiastically and calling out for him and Jay both, expressing the joy that they feel, their happiness so open and carefree. He swallows hard, fighting down the humbling feeling of standing here, before them and their reverence.

Unno barks something at him, and he turns to peer at the tiny man, feeling blank and drained.

He wonders if the look on his face is as hollow as he feels.

It’s not like he can ask Red Shoes, as the referee cares not for his bone-deep exhaustion. Unno just makes an exasperated noise deep in the back of his throat and snatches his wrist up, snapping his hand palm up towards him, as if he has won some sort of pageant and this is his reward.

Which technically it is. But he didn’t win anything. He just defended what was already his. Which is not the same thing.

He wonders if it would feel different. To have won something from this. Would he feel more accomplished than this? Would he still feel like a cavernous hole in the ground, pyrite walls beaten down by an eternal ash-storm of blackened feathers-

Would it feel like the sear of a steel chair to the back of his head?

“What is **with** everyone, and your goddamn chairs lately?”

He really needs to stop ending up here, on his knees in the middle of the ring, something hot and sticky already oozing from the back of his skull. He draws in a sharp breath, fighting down a groan as he forces himself to turn, unwilling to take this beating without at least giving Jay’s chicken-shit ass a death glare.

Ah.

It is not White who is standing behind him, chair poised and ready. For a minute it looks like Chris, the lights haloing him, and a devilish smirk on his face. It’s not Chris either though, but Trent -oops, Barreta- looking conflicted and put upon. He drops the chair and barks something that sounds murky and far away to his ears, the sound coming at him through the tube of what is no doubt a concussion, if the coppery taste filling his mouth is any indication. Jay comes back into his vision, snatching the chair up and shoving Trent, the two of them snarling at each other in what he would swear is another language, if he could focus enough to get the quip out.

Everything starts to go even foggier, his vision wobbling and in and out, the sounds of their arguing and the crowds raucous distress -Excitement? Do they feel like he does? That this is what he deserves?- wafting in and out of his range of consciousness, like a garbled song from a corrupted file. Someone kicks him in the back -and goddamn, does all of Chaos only attack from behind- but thankfully, he has an intimate acquaintance with Okada’s boot at this point, so he can tell just by the lack of follow through that his new attacker is not the golden boy himself.

“Ug. Fuck,” he coughs, all the sounds finally rushing back to him all at once, the crowds desperate cacophony and the bitching and moaning of the idiots in front of him. “Welcome to the party, Yoshi. I see Okada really has your back, White. He definitely sent out the big guns to back you up. How much sucking up did you have to do to get this special treatment?”

He is tempted to make a dick joke, but Yoshi wouldn’t understand, Trent only seems to think Taylor is funny, and Jay is an emo little bastard who wouldn’t know humor if it bit him in the ass.

Also, his heart hurts right now. Humor usually helps, but he can’t seem to get his mind off of the shimmering edges that everything in his vision seems to have aquired. The whole arena seems to be glittering a bright, heartbreaking, ache-filled shade of Golden, and he can’t seem to pull anything but sorrow up from his soul.

“For someone who is concussed to hell and back, you sure do talk a lot.”

He grimaces, teetering on his knees as the metal connects with his skull again, Trent joining in with a half hearted stomp. He would laugh, at the incompetence happening all around him right now, but Yoshi kicks him in the back again and he finaly topples forward, the crowd gasping as he smacks the mat.

“You ever thought about taking anyone but yourself seriously, Omega? Huh? Because let me tell you a little something about life, and the things it turns you into-”

He coughs out a laugh, even though that is not funny at all. Well, this whole thing is hilarious, but that is probably just because he has brain damage.

Still. Jay’s words are worse than the damn chair shots. He talks over the foolish, neurotic knife knut, watching his cherubic little face scrunch up comically in rage, through eyes that are so blurry he can hardly enjoy the show.

“You know, usually I wouldn’t be opposed to getting fucked, but could you at least take me out on a nice date first? Maybe romance me a little. I like to feel important and loved before the screwing starts-”

“I’m the one who got screwed-!”

He clicks his tongue in admonishment, reaching out and up, grabbing Jay by his blue anime hair. “Now, now, Blue Jay. Don’t accuse me of being a bad one night stand. I accepted your challenge like a man, and you took your beating like a champ. We both did well, I think. Well, I did amazing as usual, but you didn’t completely fuck it up. You lost, fair and square. Don’t be a sore loser, it’s unbecoming of such a fine young athlete like yourself. I have high hopes for you, don’t let me down.”

White flails against his hold, planting a hand on his neck and grasping the wrist of the hand that is buried in his hair. “You think I care about your hopes in me-”

He sags a little, shoving Jay away from him with an exasperated huff.

“Okay. We need to have a discussion about your shit-talking skills. They are _terrible.”_

“So, is this whole beat-down thing cancelled, or what? Because I do have other things to do with my time, you know,” Trent deadpans, his voice spiked with just the barest hint of annoyance.

“No one cares, Trent. Although, I must says, I would be totally fine with less beating-”

He gets a sharp slap across the face for the insolence, and irritation at the pure idiocy before him gets the better of him. Still, Jay’s startled look as he falls backward, clutching his balls is very amusing. It gets him punched in the back of the head -really?- and smacked in the face by his own title belt, but it’s still totally worth it.

Mostly.

If anything he had right now was worth it. Worth anything.

He glances over at the belt, dangling from Barreta’s fingers as he hauls Jay to his feet. It’s still shiny, like it was this morning, still glittery and golden -but Not- with all the promises of the future reflected in it’s mirror surface.

He shakes his head, making himself dizzy enough that he might just be sick.

That’s not true. This right here, everything that is currently in this ring, is Worth Everything. It was all Worth it in the end. It has to be, because otherwise-

Well. Otherwise nothing. It was all worth it, and this is exactly what he deserves. This is Everything That He Deserves. It is what he asked for, after all.

“Dude, no. You never said fucking anything about making him cry,” Trent says, his annoying, nasally voice making Kenny want to punch him in his stupid headband.

“Nice. No problem sneaking up behind me like a coward and braining me with a chair. That is absolutely kosher. But tears? Oh shit, time to bail. You are such a dumbass, Trent,” he slurs, his strained voice sounding strange and alien to his own ears.

“Hey, fuck you, this is not what I signed up for-”

“Ah. The naivety of youth. You don’t get to choose the prices you have to pay to get to the top, Barreta my boy. You just pay them and shut your mouth. Hold in all the screams that try to claw their way out as you watch the life you could have had wither and die.”

“Okay, I dunno how hard I hit you, but I think I’m about to end up in jail for murder. Before you die, could we get it straight that I am fucking nothing like your emotionally crippled ass, please? I mean, yeah, I have my issues, but it’s not even a contest. Like, at all. Your issues have issues.” He watches Trent’s face screw up in incredulity. “Also, fuck you, I’m only four years younger than you- shit.”

The lithe figure descends from the top rope like all that is graceful vengeance and missile-like poise, landing a clean hit. Barreta takes the two feet to the face like a champ, backflipping loony-toons style all the way to the ropes, and burbling over the apron to the floor.

He’d never understand why anyone thought that Okada had the best dropkick in wrestling. Blind, the lot of them.

Also, those fucking thighs…

...he is way too concussed for this shit right now.

Jay doesn’t move fast enough, and his punishment for his sloth-like reflexes is an ankle to the neck, going down and rolling from the ring with a frustrated whine of defeat. Yoshi doesn’t even bother to defend himself. He just swivels around, that trademark dumbass look on his face, getting a gander at the human embodiment of ethereal ferocity, and booking it the fuck out of there, hauling Trent with him as he goes.

Jay scampers off, sending a glare back towards Kenny’s savior, his loser trench coat flapping up awkwardly as he scuttles away, chasing after his retreating calvary.

Which just leaves…

Oh boy.

“Nice-” Dropkick? Save? Timing? Ass?

He has practiced this so many times, gone over this in so many ways. He is almost always so good with the words, but now none of them spring to his lips, leaving the two of them to just stare at each other in hopeless, helpless silence.

Figures. Abandoned by his friends, his family, his subordinates, and now even his own mind is leaving him out to dry.

And of course, the only one still here, the only who still shows up when he needs him the most and wants to see him the least-

“Uh. Hey, I-” Can’t feel my fingers? Can barely hear the crowd? Don’t think Matt and Nick love me anymore?

“I-” Don’t want you to leave again? Wish you would come closer? Hate you? Missed you more than I ever thought it was possible to miss a single human being?

“Thank you, Ibu-tan.”

Oh that look. The one that is hopeful and terrified, caught between those two emotions and so many others that Kenny can’t even put words too. Those are the ones he can see the clearest though, and they cut him deeper than he anticipated. It feels like a weird mix between standing in that long hallway, feeling like he was complete for the first time in over a year, and standing on that apron, wishing he could die right then and there.

He doesn't know what he feels like at the moment.

Kota seems to share his sentiment, dithering there in the ring, looking conflicted and like he is torn between reaching out, and running the fuck away. Kenny knows which one is the wisest option, but then again, Kota never did know what was good for him.

God. Really?

It’s funny in a sad way, and so perfectly Kota that it almost makes tears spring to his eyes all over again. Kota came in like such a badass, all kicks and silent menace, flipping around and being his amazing self. And then they get to this, the painfully awkward staring, the slack jawed, keening inability to say or do anything in the face of this-

Whatever they have turned into.

A fuckin’ mess, if nothing else.

The stalemate is broken when Kota seems to make up his mind. In another move that is so like him, he drops to his knees, far too close and never ever close enough, reaching out and running a hand through his sweaty hair for just a heartbeat. He closes his eyes, breathing in everything that has ever made him whole, his other half, the Golden parts of him that make him who he is.

The moment is over in a flash though, something like grief stricken contentment in Kota’s eyes as he jerks himself up, a hand following him against Kenny’s will. Kota watches his fingers, and doesn’t say anything, so he smears a streak of blood across Kota’s thigh, his hands shaking as he breathes out, something warm and wet pooling on his cheeks as the crowd’s voice rises up from it’s death-like silence.

Kota’s face is a mess as he stares down at the red stripe across his perfect thigh, gawking at the mar against his skin like it is the most fascinating thing that he has ever seen, and not Kenny’s pathetic attempt to lay claim to something that has not been his for a very long time.

Whatever is being said, -he can’t say he doesn’t know what he is trying to say, and Kota’s always been unerringly good at reading him- Kota seems to be in the same mindset as him, for the first time in quite a while.

He doesn’t know which one of them taps out first, but he feels a sort of calm fall over them, like that moment at the end of a match, when it’s finally over and you know that at some point you can rest. Of course, this is not over, he isn’t sure when it will ever be over, he doesn't know how to win this particular match, isn’t sure if that is even possible or desirable at this point, but the feeling is nice anyway.

Kota doesn’t wipe the blood away, and he doesn’t help Kenny up. He nods to Kenny, bows to the shrieking audience, and then hustles off, leaving the mess in the ring to flop back on the mat, Shota and Oka making their way back up into the ring to see to him slowly, like they don’t want to disturb him from his reverie.

He doesn’t say anything, just watches the lights above him fade in and out of his vision and listens to the crowd cry out that most precious of tag team names, memories of Golden washing over him even as he dreads getting up and hauling his carcass backstage.

At least he feels a bit more balanced now.

**Author's Note:**

> Why, yes, that last line is a poor One-Winged Angel pun, thank you for noticing. Everyone knows what the most commonly used name for pyrite is, right? 'Cause in case anyone is confused, I'll spoil the joke, it's fools gold. See what I did there? Eh, eh?
> 
> I'll see myself out.
> 
> Anyone besides me enjoy Omega and Jay arguing over who was the bottom in the match? God, I am so not funny. Anyway, this is obviously just my imagination going wild. Jay actually does have a chance to win their match, as much as that makes me guffaw in rude, incredulous laughter. The Not-Reunion isn't something I think will happen at New Beginning. Well, I expect drama of some sort (several sorts, actually, and not all of it Golden Lovers related) but I am not convinced that this is where they are going, exactly. This just hit me at two in the morning, and I had to get it out of my system. Eventually, I will stop taking the piss out of Jay's terrible public speaking skills and his cringy ass Teenage Wasteland gimmick. Maybe. Poor little bird, I'm such an asshole ^.^
> 
> (Also, Omega's full of shit. Okada's dropkick is unmatched. Well, okay, it's close. But still. He is 9001% correct about the godlike thighs though, I'll give him that.)


End file.
